Harry Potter and the Remember'd Year
by CoffeeForPinetens
Summary: I open only for the worthy.


**-The Remember'd Year-**

Of the dozen green velvet armchairs around the long, gleaming ebony table, only four had so far been taken. Fairmont Bassoon was wearing his glossiest burgundy robes, seated prominently at the far end of the table, upon an armchair rather taller and more patiently carved than the rest. Here was an old, weak-chinned wizard with glassy eyes, drooping, liver-spotted cheeks and a tuft of dense white hair that fell from the back of his head to his shoulders. He was also Chairman of the Board of Governors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a position he had held for three non-consecutive years. To Fairmont's left, a curvy, long-eyelashed witch was sweating and frantically fanning herself with a copy of yesterday's Daily Prophet, which she had folded into a gigantic sensu. The warmth and humidity of the July evening were somehow amplified threefold indoors, a situation four open windows, a Desiccating Charm, and even a Muggle dehumidifier (which Fairmont had acquired from a Muggle shop by the village hall, and whose existence he would never admit to) had failed to remedy.

Watching his guest in such discomfort made Fairmont feel slightly guilty. Then again, he reminded himself, nobody had forced Olivia Flout to come wearing a tight satin dress and a solid inch of make-up. Once upon a time, the Board of Governors had to don official silver-and-black robes with the Hogwarts crest sewn over for these meetings, but that tradition had faded from practice over a century ago. Ultimately, it was Amantheon Cwm, the handsome wizard in the plumed purple hat on Fairmont's right, who came to Olivia's rescue.

Amantheon flicked his wand, producing a large bottle of wine and four slender glasses out of thin air. "While we wait," he murmured. " _Accio cork_." The cork rocketed out of the floating bottle into his waiting palm. " _Glacius_ ," he then muttered, giving the bottle a small tap on the side. Light blue frost spread across the bottle like a pestilence; the glass turned opaque, the liquid inside frozen solid. Amantheon carefully tilted the bottle toward himself, inserted the tip of his wand into the rim and whispered, " _Diffindo vinum_." There was a crunch of shattering ice. Amantheon gave the wand a final wave. The bottle tipped over, and heavy, fragrant white slush plopped into four glasses, each of which floated towards one member of the table. "Ah, bless you, Amantheon," sighed Olivia, rolling the cold glass across her cheek. Amantheon nodded, lightly toasted her with his own glass, and took a sip of the liquid. "Thanks, Amantheon," said Fairmont, gratefully lifting the glass to his lips. The drink tasted of jasmine and sour lychees, and was absolutely delicious. Of the four glasses, one remained unaccepted, suspended in mid-air before its addressee.

"Have a nip, Oistel?" said Amantheon. The fourth Governor, a nervous, moustached little man called Oistel Moscue, had been quiet ever since his arrival, silently smoking a pipe at the lonely end of the table, all his attention devoted to the radio set he had brought along with him. Even now, he was frowning at it, arms crossed, the ends of his moustache twitching like an insect's antennae. "Oh, sorry," said Moscue, blinking in surprise, waving the mist of smoke around him away, and taking the glass. "Didn't see. Thank you."

"Mercy, what are you listening to, Oi?" said Olivia, now dabbing condensation from her glass on her neck. "You're making us all nervous when you sit all stiff like that. The Second War is over! Tom Riddle has gone! Nobody's dying anymore!" Moscue gently tamped down his pipe with his wand, causing electric blue sparks to fly out of the bowl. "The Minister was Magic isn't all too sure about that, Olive," he replied slowly. "He was just on the evening news right now."

"Oh," said Olivia, looking startled. "Why? What did he say?"

"Well, he was saying while the worst is over, we still can't be too careful," said Moscue. "While most of the Death Eaters have been rounded up, there may be a few still lurking around."

"Oh, that's just silly!" said Olivia cheerfully. "There's no problem, they've all gone into hiding! They won't hurt anybody ever again!"

"Maybe they will, maybe they won't," mumbled Moscue, staring thoughtfully at the dark, empty fireplace as he swirled the slush in his glass.

"What d'you mean?"

Moscue set down his still unsampled drink and picked up the pipe again, as though choosing which of the two he would need to explain this better. "When Riddle was around, there was some predictability going around to what the Death Eaters did," he explained, take a long, shut-eyed pull. "Their actions were evil, yes, but they were also coordinated, well-planned and closely monitored. A rogue Death Eater, on the other hand, can be a very volatile one, especially if they hold Riddle's beliefs close to their heart. All that notion of blood purity and whatnot."

"Shacklebolt's absolutely right," said Amantheon, nodding his head so vigorously the massive feathers on his hat flopped over in front of his nose. "Just look at the struggle Yaxley put up when the Aurors cornered him in Hogsmeade after the Battle of Hogwarts." He swept the feathers back over his head before declaring- "It would be foolish to hope that every last one would give up without a fight."

"I suppose so," murmured Olivia, sounding unconvinced. "But it's not like you can expect a Death Eater to just Apparate into our houses and- ARRRGH!" There were two terrific cracks; Olivia's drink went flying across the room, Moscue hopped a foot clean up in his armchair, and Amantheon went lunging for his wand.

"AGATHA! MARY!" cried Olivia, clutching her heart. "DON'T DO THAT!"

"Hello, you two," said Fairmont mildly, who seemed to be the only one unruffled by the fact that two middle-aged witches had just Apparated into his drawing room. "You can put that away, Master Cwm," he added gently. "I'll certainly let you know when I need an eye put out." Amantheon stowed his wand away with a bit of a grin. "Evening, everyone," said the newly-arrived, brown-haired witch gruffly, looking herself up and down, as if to make sure no parts got left behind. "We're not too early, are we?"

"No, Agatha, you're not," replied Fairmont, glancing outside the nearest window. The sky was a deep orange, the birds had returned to the trees, and the sun's final light was bleeding crimson over the blackened, crooked village rooftops of Taggler's Stump. Sundown was the reporting time he had given his fellow Governors. Then the other Hubsworth sister, a smaller, blonder version of Agatha, spoke in a pitch-perfect impression- "Evening, everyone! We're not too early, are we?"

Fairmont raised an eyebrow. "Er…No, Mary. I said you're not."

"Come on, Mare, let's grab seats," muttered Agatha, seizing her sister by the wrist and leading her to the closest empty seats. "Come on, Mare, let's grab…seats…" repeated Mary vaguely, an unfocused look on her face, pottering after Agatha in tiny, timid steps, like someone had tied a rope around her ankles. Fairmont frowned after her, as though he thought she was trying to be funny. "You sit here," said Agatha firmly, guiding Mary in front of the armchair nearest to the fireplace and pushing her down by the shoulders. " _You_ sit here!" cried Mary, but she plonked herself onto the cushion all the same. Catching the puzzled expressions from everyone else, Agatha sighed, "Sorry you had to see this…she's suffering from Imitatrix."

"From Imitatrix!" sang Mary, giggling and bouncing up and down in her seat.

"What's Imitatrix?" enquired Olivia with interest.

"WHAT'S IMITATRIX!?"

"Oh, God, I can't deal with this anymore… gimme those…" said Agatha impatiently, snatching Olivia and Amantheon's empty glasses. She surreptitiously reached into her own pocket and pulled out what looked like a bunch of burnt, blackish parsley. From the bunch she plucked out one small leaf, which she put in one of the glasses. This glass she placed in front of Mary, and the leaf-free one, in front of herself. "Look, Mary," she said, making a pantomime of pulling her wand out of her robes and pointing it into the cup. "Aguamenti!" Mary gleefully did likewise, and water filled both glasses, though on closer inspection Mary's could be seen to have a very light chestnut tinge to it. "Drinkee! Glug!" said Agatha, in the sort of honeyed tone one usually reserves for toddlers, downing her drink in one. The moment Mary finished drinking her own glass, however, her back seemed to give way. She lurched forward, the empty glass slipping out of her hands and rolling across the table. Then she swayed slightly in her seat, her eyelids beginning to droop. "That should take care of her for a bit," said Agatha. She looked relieved when Mary did not copy that too, but instead, looked blearily around at all of them, rubbing her eyes. "To answer your question, Imitatrix is a condition," said Agatha, at last turning to Olivia. "People who've been under the Imperius Curse too long, you know?" Olivia raised a hand to her mouth, looking horrified. "What…not Mary…?"

"Yes, she was for six months," said Agatha grimly. "They used her to access the Hogwarts vault archives whenever they needed to. But I suppose my poor sister got off easy. They made some people do much worse…"

"So… what are the effects?" said Olivia in a hesitant voice, after a moment's pause. It could not be more apparent she was still curious, but thought it would be rude to look it. "They're in front of you," said Agatha crisply, gesturing towards Mary. "When you have Imitatrix, you just tend to follow people around and copy their every move. Family members, friends, caregivers. The Healers at St. Mungo's say it's harmless, really. The effects are said to last a few months after the curse is lifted. "

"How do we know that?" said Amantheon, staring at Mary, who was now chewing on the sash of her robes. "It hasn't been a few months yet."

"Because this isn't the first time. There were dozens of cases after the First Wizarding War as well," said Agatha. Then she asked, obviously keen to change the subject-"So where are the others?" Oistel Moscue, who was in charge of attendance, cleared his throat. "We are still waiting for Bernard Biggleton, Henry McClivert and Ruth Dansel," he told her. "Harriet Booth, God rest her soul, obviously won't be here- that vacancy hasn't been filled in ages. Magnus DuFrey is on holiday in the Kunluns with his wife and children, and Nigel Zumpetty's down with a second bout of scrofungulus."

"Where are they, anyway?" said Fairmont, looking out the window again and annoyed to find the sky now black. "They should've been here by now!"

"Why don't we just begin?" suggested Olivia, looking at Fairmont. "There's six of us here already. That's more than a quorum and enough for a Passable Majority."

"No…the issue I mentioned in my owl… it will require something more than a Passable Majority," said Fairmont. "A Special Majority?" said Agatha in surprise.

"I wish."

"Not an Especially Special Majority!" cried Olivia, and her eyes went wide as Galleons. "Wow! I don't think we've had one of those since…oh, since…I actually can't think of the last time we needed one of those!"

"Yes, it will be tough," admitted Fairmont. "At least nine votes in favour and no dissensions."

"I hope we get it," breathed Olivia. "It'll be of great- ACK! WHY CAN'T PEOPLE USE THE FLOO NETWORK AROUND HERE?"- she cried, as two more cracks rang out through the room. One of the latest entrants was Bernard Biggleton, a tall, impish wizard from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, for whom this was his first Board meeting. He did not seem to care much about making a good first impression- Biggleton had smudged blue and beige warpaint on his face, Butterbeer stains on his robes, a front tooth missing and a black eye- all the evidences of recently having been in a sports brawl. Accompanying Biggleton, for some reason, was a highly polished silver suit of armour. "HIYA GANG," bellowed Biggleton, giving Amantheon a hard, unwelcome slap on the back. "GUESS WHO JUST WON A BET?"

"Where on earth do you think you're coming from?" said Fairmont, as Moscue gave a roar of glee and rushed to greet the newcomers. "And Henry, what sort of outfit is this?" The suit of armour lifted its visor, revealing a chubby red face squashed inside the helmet. "I'm wearin' robes underneaf," explained McClivert, steadying himself as Moscue bounced off his breastplate in his attempted hug.

"But why?"

"'Bout tha' bet ol' Bernie won?" said Henry sadly, shutting the visor and settling for a vigorous handshake instead. "Yeah, I lost. Jus' wasn' the Falcons' day, I guess."

"You should see this new Keeper Puddlemere's got!" cried Biggleton, actually skipping up and down with excitement. "It was like there was one of him on every hoop! And the Chasers were on fire too! The Falcons couldn't do a thing. A hundred-and-ninety to nothing, game over in twenty-two minutes flat!"

"You were at a Quidditch game!" said Fairmont, very crossly. "But you couldn't have known when it would end! We could've been waiting here all night! Fancy that! A meeting of the Hogwarts Board of Governors held up just because of a league match! This is disgraceful! I haven't seen anything like it in all my life!"

"Aha! But you didn't end up waiting all night, did you?" pointed out Biggleton, beating the stiff, clanking suit of armour to the coveted seat beside Olivia, who could still charm the socks off most wizards without trying. "Anyway, it doesn't look like everyone's here yet, so we're not the only ones to blame."

"Yes," said Amantheon, betraying a touch of impatience for the first time. "Ruth Dansel is yet to arrive."

"I actually meant her," smirked Biggleton, indicating Mary, who was snoring gently on Agatha's shoulder. "Hey, you'll never believe who we saw at the match!"

"Who?"

"Prodigus Diggle!" cried McClivert, clapping his gauntlets together with a horrible metallic clang. "Oh, no," groaned Moscue, smacking a palm to his forehead. "Was the old loon up with one of his protests again?"

"Yeah!" sniggered Biggleton, stretching an arm out for the bottle of wine. "Streaked onto the pitch just moments before Brewhogger scored the first goal. Falcons threw a big tantrum and demanded the goal be invalidated, saying he'd distracted them, even though it was Puddlemere's goalposts he was near."

"Leas' they managed to get a towel 'round 'im this time," muttered McClivert, and Moscue laughed. "Sorry," said Amantheon. "But who exactly is Prodigus Diggle?"

Biggleton, who looked like he was storing wine for winter in his cheeks, gave an enormous gulp. "Oh, he's just this crackpot," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "He keeps going on about how Muggles deserve to know about us now. About how the Second Wizarding War affected them almost as much as it affected us. He says our kind need to come out of hiding now and find a way to cohabitate."

"Is he that part-Mermish bloke that keeps yammering in the papers?" said Amantheon. "That's the one! It's crazy, he even made the front cover of this month's Quibbler."

"Oh, that makes it all right then," snorted Amantheon. "The Quibbler. Was his story after the bit on the therapeutic uses of Niffler dung, I wonder? Or was it before the article that claimed Viktor Krum's goatee is in fact a Portkey to the moon?"

"Actually, Amantheon, the Quibbler's the new magazine to trust," said Agatha fairly. "The story I read was that Prodigus Diggle was actually there when the Death Eaters attacked the Brockdale Bridge two years ago, and felt powerless to do anything because there were literally hundreds of Muggles watching. Poor fellow's haunted with guilt and regret, and genuinely thinks this is the right thing to do."

"Hang on," cried Olivia. Looking delighted to have something to contribute, she took her Daily Prophet handfan and spread it out wide across the table for everyone to see. On the bottom of the very first page- "Aha! I knew I'd seen him! There he is!" Heads converged over the newspaper to look under the headline ("DAFFY DIGGLE AT IT AGAIN!") at the picture of the skinny, unkempt man sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Ministry of Magic Atrium. While Fairmont was doing his level best to not imagine exactly how somebody could come to be part-Mermish, as he stared at the silent protestor and his staring yellow eyes, slimy hands and greyish complexion, he did think there was something there. "Looks a determined lad, dun 'e?" said McClivert, with a noisy shudder. "Iron will in 'em yellow peepers."

"Imagine if he actually did go around blabbering to Muggles," said Olivia. "How scary would that be?"

"Pretty darn scary, Olive," said Biggleton. A warm light in the room made them all look up from the newspaper. A green fire had just lit up in the grate in the empty fireplace. Seconds later, a spinning blur materialized, finally slowing into the form of a curly-haired, bespectacled, yellow-robed witch. "See!" said Olivia approvingly, as Ruth Dansel stepped out of the fireplace, looking grumpy. "That's the best way to travel! Hallo, Ruthie!"

"Hello, gang," said Ruth, raising a few fingers in greeting. "Wow, it's hot in here."

"What's all this, then, Ruth?" said Moscue, in mock-seriousness. "I thought Hufflepuffs were always supposed to be on time!"

"That Hufflepuffs are always on time?" said Ruth incredulously, removing her travelling cloak and hanging it on the coat rack. "Is that a fact?"

"That's what the Sorting Hat said in its song in my first year," shrugged Moscue, finishing what remained of his drink. "Take it with a pinch of salt, Oi," said Biggleton, struggling to keep his face straight. "The hardest part of the Sorting Hat's life is just coming up with things to say about Hufflepuff."

"That's enough," said Fairmont sharply, as McClivert nearly lost bowel control to laughter. "Please get settled quickly, Ruth. We've been waiting for you. It's not like you to be so late."

"It's not my fault," said Ruth, in a sullen voice, taking a seat beside the still-chortling McClivert. "The Floo Network didn't get the name of your Muggle village right this first time. I've spent the last half-hour wandering around this hovel called Dagletzdumpf, in the middle of the Bavarian forest."

"No matter," said Fairmont briskly. "As long as you're here now. Please awaken your sister, Agatha."

He began waving his wand over his head, so the bottle of wine and the glasses evaporated into ash, the newspaper gracefully folded itself to a side, and Moscue's radio floated across to the mantelpiece over the fireplace. The windows all slammed shut, the linen curtains flew over them, and a marble cupboard sprang open in a quiet corner of the drawing room. Out of the cupboard flew a four-limbed candelabra so corroded and rusty it looked like a relic from an old shipwreck. The four white candles sitting inside the candlesticks, however, looked like they had been carved out of beeswax pressed just this morning. The mere appearance of the candelabra alone had a powerful impact upon the Governors. All talk was extinguished, elbows automatically slid off the table, backs straightened up. The jokey, convivial atmosphere was gone in a trice, as if the drawing room had suddenly turned into ground too sacred to dare any of it. "The Light of the Founders," whispered Fairmont, gently guiding the candelabra to the centre of the table with his wand, where it landed with a heavy clatter. And there they were, nine Governors of Hogwarts, all ready for the meeting to commence. Fairmont gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening as he rose to his feet.

"I bid you all a very warm welcome to the One-Hundred-and-Fifty-First Annual Congress of the Hogwarts Board of Governors," he began, his voice deep and measured. "Or the First, if you consider its felonious dissolution by the Thicknesse Ministry last year valid. It has been two years since we last met. Two long, difficult years. Some of us have lost members of our family (Agatha squeezed Mary's hand in her own), others have lost friends. But here we are, on the other side, survivors of that terrible, terrible ordeal. The Second Wizarding War is over, the fires are doused, and the time to heal our wounds and usher in new beginnings is upon us. As Chairman of the Board, I would like to invite our newest member, Governor Bernard Biggleton to declare the Congress convened. Minutes of the meeting may now be recorded."

On a tall escritoire beside the marble cabinet, a handsome hippogriff quill, replete with violet ink, readied itself at the top of a rolled-up, snakeskin-like scroll, which had been placed there for this very purpose. Biggleton pulled out a slightly crooked silver-lime wand and pointed it at the candelabra.

"Lumos sanctis!"

Four beads of pure white light shot out of the tip of his wand and went swirling towards the candelabra. They orbited it a couple of times, like fireflies sucked into a whirlwind, each circle tighter and faster than the last, before each striking the wick of a candle of its choosing. The four candles lit up in flames of different colours- dark red, emerald green, deep blue and bright gold. The flames took turns to swell and ebb, so the room was bathed in whichever colour was dominant at the time. "Now," said Bassoon, his face thrown in unflattering green shadow. "To business. There is only one item on the agenda today- you are all aware of what that is."

"The issue of the Remember'd Year," murmured Amantheon. "With an apostrophe, mind you, so we know it's all very serious," smirked Biggleton, who couldn't resist one last crack.

"Last year at Hogwarts was an aberration," said Bassoon, ignoring him. "A Year of Sorrow. A Lost Year. A Forgotten Year. A blight that tarnished the soul of a great institution. Wars will come and wars will go, but I think we can all agree that the hallowed portals of knowledge should never be made casualties. This is what happened to our Hogwarts last year. Dark magic being taught in the very classrooms that used to once be filled with mischief and laughter. Torture being used in the dungeons, in a day and age when even laying a finger on a student is considered unspeakable. Impressionable young minds being brainwashed into believing their own friends and families were their inferiors, nay, downright scum. If the Founders knew this, oh, the shame!"

Heads hung low everywhere. Even the four flames flickered a little, as though an unseen higher power was using them to pronounce its disapproval on the matter. "But that's not all last year was," continued the Chairman dramatically. "It was also a year of rebellion. A year to discover the good in ourselves. A year to fight for what was right, be it sheltering Muggle-borns in our homes, sending messages for the Order of the Phoenix, or standing toe-to-toe against Riddle at the Battle of Hogwarts. It was every bit a fight worth fighting for, worth dying for. However, if there's one thing last year wasn't, it surely wasn't a year of learning for the students at Hogwarts."

The hanging heads now rose to bob in broad agreement with his words. "My fellow Governors," said Fairmont. "I have a proposal. Another year. A special year for all students, where every trace of the Riddle legacy will scrubbed clean from memory. The walls of Hogwarts, caked with the grime of a pernicious, totalitarian regime, must be rinsed with the mop of love and perfumed bath-salts of tolerance (Biggleton clamped a hand over his nose and mouth just in time to stop a colossal snort from escaping). We must commend last year to the deepest abyss of history, and in its place, install a Remember'd Year. A year where academic reparations are made. A year where a torch of hope flushes out the corrosive darkness that has seeped into the castle's edifice. A year where our great alma mater is restored to her former glory. What say you?"

The applause that broke out after this was swift and long. "Bravo!" cried Moscue, who was clapping hard enough for three. "Wonderful!" said McClivert.

"So as I understand it," said Ruth, after things had settled down again. "Whittled down, this Remember'd Year could just as well be called the Repeat Year. We are essentially just calling students back to catch up on the studies they missed out on, or the studies that never happened because of the dangerous atmosphere at the time."

"Yes and no, Ruth," said Fairmont. "Yes, of course the old syllabus will be brought back, as a lot of students still have to take their OWLs and NEWTs. But calling it just a repeat year does not do it justice. The Remember'd Year is aimed at specifically addressing and correcting the inadequacies of last year. To that extent, I was hoping we, as Governors, might recommend certain changes be made."

"Like what?"

"I'm open to ideas," said Fairmont, gesturing to all of them. "You all have an equal say in this. How d'you think we can make the Remember'd Year a richer and more rewarding experience for the students?"

Moscue was the first to speak. "Thank you, Chairman, for your proposal of the Remember'd Year, which you have my full backing for," he said, very formally. "As far as changes go, I for one really feel there should be more practical Defence against the Dark Arts. We need to cut down on that pedantic swill the Ministry's been feeding the students for so long. They need training in jinxes, hexes, counter-curses, dealing with Dark creatures, duelling, that sort of thing. It's got to be more hands-on."

"That will be a popular decision," nodded Fairmont, a sentiment echoed on both sides of the table. "A much needed one, too."

"Oh, I know!" cried McClivert. "Ya know how Voldemor' made Muggle Studies mandatory for every'un? Well, we gotta keep it tha' way! We hafta undo all tha' rubbish they've been teachin' 'bout the bone structure differences be'ween Muggles n' us."

"Yes," sniffed Olivia, dabbing a handkerchief to her eye. "We owe it to Charity."

"That's an excellent idea, Henry!" said Fairmont happily.

"I think one of the reasons things got so bad," said Olivia, clearly eager to make a mark as well, "was that there was so much bad blood between Houses. See, once the Sorting Ceremony is over, a sense of 'otherness' creeps in between Hogwarts students, and it never ever goes away. They are segregated at mealtimes and in their common rooms. Their only interaction is limited to classes and Quidditch matches, which are often more adversarial than friendly. I think steps should be taken to bring about greater inter-House cooperation and bonhomie. It will help remove misconceptions about each other. And a couple of rotten eggs should not be allowed to give one House a bad name," she finished. There was much table-thumping at this idea, the loudest of which came from Moscue and Amantheon, who were both Slytherins.

"Ogden's Old Firewhisky to be served with supper on weekends!" cried Biggleton. "What?" he added defensively, several seconds of shocked silence later. "Something _really_ needs to get shot down here, or we'll all look like a bunch of namby-pamby pushovers."

"Is this definitely within our purview, Fairmont?" asked Ruth, peering at him over the top of her glasses. "It is," replied Fairmont. "I've checked the Statute of 1846 quite thoroughly. As per Section Eighteen and a Half, the Board of Governors shall have the power to recommend changes in the school curriculum to the incumbent Headmaster or Headmistress, (Subsection 2) who shall be bound to accept these recommendations if they are passed with an Especially Special Majority. Section 201, Item 57, covers the definition of 'changes in the curriculum,' which includes, '…or any such changes as the board may deem necessary.' Obviously, Minerva will more than be on board for this, so there should be no objection from her side."

"Is there a precedent?" pressed Ruth. "Has this been done before?"

"Section Eighteen and a Half has been invoked twice," said Fairmont. "Once in 1857, when Care of Magical Creatures was first introduced, in memory of Angeline Golgofrio, the then Chairman Claude Golgofrio's granddaughter. Angeline, you see, died at the tender age of ten, but not before acquiring a deep love for unicorns. The second instance was in 1889, when Arithmancy was made elective, after the entire third-year fainted upon reading the final exam question paper. However, in terms of scale, yes, this is unprecedented."

"What will the parents say?" said Amantheon, who could always be counted on to ask the harsh, uncomfortable questions. "Is this not yet another year of education they have to pay for?" Fairmont's stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. He had not considered this at all. How _would_ they fund the Remember'd Year? It was all very well to talk about, but it had to be financially viable, too. "Tuition, of course, is free," he said uncertainly. "We could maybe talk to the Minister of Magic about subsidising the price of book sets and scales for the Year? I suppose there is an allowance for students who cannot pay, but for all the students…hmm…maybe we could invite donations?" Amantheon did not look entirely satisfied with that answer. Nor, for that matter, did any other Governor, and Fairmont began to fret a little. Even the hippogriff feather quill, which had been toiling away non-stop for the past fifteen minutes, and whose notes were now long enough to touch the floor, wrote that down with great hesitation, as if it could tell how inept it sounded.

"I got it!" cried Biggleton, snapping his fingers. "The Ministry's confiscated the properties of a lot of Death Eaters this past month. We could sell that and fund the Remember'd Year from the proceeds! It should be more than sufficient- I heard the Minister himself wondering what they were going to do with so much gold!" The table erupted in cheers and whoops of approval, and the hippogriff quill began to scamper across the parchment again. Fairmont looked like he could have adopted Biggleton. "Brilliant!" he said.

"Genius, Bernie!" yelled McClivert, too delighted to even get jealous when Olivia leaned across and pinched Biggleton's cheek. Biggleton sat tall in his armchair, thoroughly enjoying the attention. Meanwhile, a bubble of happy chatter had broken out among the Governors- the unmistakeable chatter of a rapidly emerging consensus. "I have a query," said Agatha suddenly. She had been remarkably silent for a while, listening to what everyone was saying without comment, and gently stroking her sister's hair. "Yes, Agatha?" said Fairmont, who had honestly expected her to speak long before this.

"What about Harry Potter?"

"What about him?" asked Fairmont, taken aback.

"You said that the Remember'd Year would be for everybody, yes? So…does that include him as well?" A couple of heads turned questioningly towards Fairmont, as though they felt a legitimate point had just been raised. Fairmont, however, frowned. "Why should it not include him?"

"Alright," said Agatha patiently. "Let me try and explain. Harry Potter is without a doubt, one of the greatest wizards of our time. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Yes. He has shown powers far beyond his years, far beyond what can ever be taught at Hogwarts. He has shown unwavering integrity in the face of constant ridicule, infallible loyalty in the face of royal temptation, unparalleled bravery in the face of certain death. He is the reason we are rid of Tom Riddle. He is the reason all of us are even sitting here right now. He is our hero and our messiah, and I don't care how old he is. He's proven himself year after year after year. We owe everything to him."

"You make an interesting point, Agatha," said Fairmont. "Except, I still don't know what it is."

"My point, Fairmont," breathed Agatha. "Is that when we owe so much to him, will it be fair to force him to return to Hogwarts, via some new-fangled policy? Come to think of it, he won't even need to come back! There's no door in the world closed to him, no job he'd be denied. A red carpet will be waiting to welcome him to any position in the Ministry. What incentive would be left for him to return?" There were murmurings of support from Olivia and McClivert; even Ruth Dansel looked impressed by this argument. Moscue, however, squared his shoulders. "May I take this one?" he asked Fairmont.

"By all means," the Chairman said, with a smile.

"Look, Agatha," said Moscue, turning towards her. "Nobody at this table doubts Harry Potter's greatness, nor denies the debt both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds owe him. But you are forgetting one very important detail. You are forgetting that Harry Potter has only had six years of a proper magical education. How many have you had, Agatha?"

"Why, seven," said Agatha.

"And how many have you had, Olive?"

"Seven," said Olivia.

"Henry?"

"Yes," shrugged the suit of armour, lazily scratching a couter. "Same."

"Correct," said Moscue, raising a finger. "So he is not yet as thoroughly able in subjects like Charms and Transfiguration and Potions, as any fully qualified wizard, living his daily life, ought to be. Like it or not, Harry Potter's education remains incomplete. As does Ronald Weasley's. As does everyone else's who did not attend Hogwarts last year, which I hear was a considerable number. And the ones who did go actually took a step backward with all that stunted, perverted schooling the Death Eaters gave them. Would we be so cruel as to allow an entire generation of young witches and wizards to carry forth those values with them?"

"But I didn't talk about anybody else-" began Agatha, but Moscue cut her off. "And while you are also right that Harry Potter can join the Ministry in any capacity, with or without a NEWT to his name," continued Moscue, "all the talent, all the success in the world does not give one the right to deny the importance of a comprehensive and quality formal education. As the Board of Governors of Hogwarts, is it not our duty to ensure that every wizarding child, born to magical and non-magical families alike, gets that much?" Agatha pursed her lips, humbled and red-faced.

"And to add to what Oi just said," said Biggleton. "You say there are things Hogwarts can't teach- bravery and loyalty and such. Well, where on earth do you think Harry Potter learnt them in the first place!?"

"Okay," said Agatha, in a small voice. Then she turned to Fairmont, who was waiting for her signal, and said breathlessly, "Alright, that answers my question. Can we proceed with the vote now?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Fairmont inclined his head courteously towards her.

"Thank you, Agatha. So, I think that concludes the discussion part of things… All those in favour of the Remember'd Year, please raise your hands," he said, raising his own hand high into the air. Eight more hands followed his. Even Agatha's (and by proxy, Mary's- the potion was beginning to wear off), which hovered disconcertingly by her ear for a moment, before rising to full-stretch. "Anybody _not_ in favour of the Remember'd Year, now's the time to say it," said Fairmont, lowering his hand. Heads turned left and right. McClivert peeked forward and lifted his visor for a better look. No hands were left in the air. A unanimous decision. "Is it finished?" asked Fairmont, looking back towards the escritoire, where a pigeon feather quill was working alongside the hippogriff one, on a smaller piece of white parchment. The pigeon feather put some finishing touches to whatever it was working on, then it hopped off the parchment and began to zigzag around its larger counterpart like a figure-skater, complete with twirls and pirouettes, looking pleased with itself. The hippogriff quill took a break from its note-taking to swat it soundly off the desktop. Fairmont summoned the white parchment over. "What I have here," declared Fairmont, holding it up for everyone to see, "is an Order addressed to the Headmistress of Hogwarts, recommending the institution of the Remember'd Year. All the ideas that were pitched at today's meeting, you will find, have already been inserted and refined in an agreeably persuasive language. I request you all to peruse the Order, and if it is to your satisfaction, put your signature anywhere you like on it."

The paper went round the table. While most members read it once, some, like Amantheon and Ruth, read it a few times over, poring over every word and even making the occasional inquiry. Bernard Biggleton, however, barely glanced at it before scribbling his assent. Fifteen minutes passed in relative silence, where the only movements were the scratching of a signature or someone raising an arm to mop a sweaty forehead, and finally, the Order found its way back to the Chairman. "Passed with an Especially Special Majority," murmured Fairmont, putting his own signature down and counting all the others with some satisfaction. "There it is. May it do us all some good." Then, he stopped as something caught his eye. "Mary, could you please sign that again," he sighed, passing the paper back down the table. "Your _own_ name, this time. Help her, Agatha." Fairmont went through the corrected Order again, and this time found nothing to complain about. "Geminio," he muttered, tapping it with his wand, making a copy. The copy, he locked in one of the drawers of the escritoire. The original, he rolled up and tucked away into an inside pocket of his robes. "Wha' happens now, Fairmon'?" asked Henry.

"Now, I shall have to send a couple of owls," said Fairmont, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "First, I'll send this to Minerva. After all, it is she who will have to work out the specifics! Then, maybe I'll shoot an owl off to the Minister for Magic as well, keeping that point Bernard made in mind. And after that, I should very much enjoy a nice bath," he finished with a weary sigh.

"In the perfumed bath-salts of tolerance," muttered Biggleton, under his breath.

Fairmont laid both his wrinkly hands on the table, drew a deep breath, and looked up at the rest of them. "Well, that's that, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "It's been a productive meeting. A very good evening to you all. In my position as Chairman of the Board of Governors, I do declare this Congress… closed." As he said the word, 'closed,' he jabbed his wand at the candelabra. The four flames went out without a wisp of smoke, leaving only a trace of some sweetish aroma in their wake, and the room fell into the half-darkness of moonlight sieved through the white linen curtains. The hippogriff quill stopped writing, drew a line, and leapt off the scroll, landing neatly back in its inkpot, which it sank deep into with a quiver of satisfaction. Together, the nine Governors rose from their seats. There was a flurry of motion as chairs were pushed back, hats reworn, cloaks refastened, and partings exchanged. A series of pops and cracks rang out as they began to Disapparate, one after another, until only Fairmont, Agatha and Mary were left in the room. "I'd better take her Side-Along," whispered Agatha, as her sister clung to her waist and drooled on her moccasins. "Heavens knows where she might end up otherwise."

Fairmont chuckled. "She's lucky to have you, then," he said. They regarded each other for a couple of moments- there were still some unspoken words left between the two. "You voted in favour of the Remember'd Year, Agatha, and you have my gratitude for that," said Fairmont quietly. "But I must ask you, off the books- do you still have any reservations about it?"

"No," said Agatha, after some thought. "I trust your judgment implicitly."

Fairmont bowed his head. "Thank you, Agatha. That is a very generous thing to say." Then an amused smile flickered on his face. "Plus, from what I gather, Mr. Potter is very attached to Hogwarts. I think, in his own imagination, his relationship with the school would never be fully consummated until he graduates from its halls. He would want to do it. And frankly, I cannot imagine a better vacation for our young friends, after all they have been through the past few years. Surely, Mr. Potter has the right to enjoy for once a school year without any worries, any surprises, or without anything exciting happening?"

******* _"You take intense serenity, they ween."_ *******


End file.
